I love snowboarding, my girlfriend Rosie loves to dance, and we both love to travel. A late night discussion on where to spend a week's winter break quickly prompted a challenge along the lines of a school playground taunt: "I'll try yours if you try mine."

But if Rosie was going to strap a snowboard to her feet and recklessly slide down the side of a mountain, she wasn't going to let me get away with a waltz. I was to suffer trial by flamenco; arguably one of the most intricate and passionate dances in the world.

Andalusia was the obvious destination; spiritual home of flamenco. We narrowed the choice down to Granada, a hothouse of flamenco tradition and innovation, and conveniently less than an hour's drive from Europe's most southerly ski area, Sierra Nevada.

Dancing chic to chic

I am not a man who spends much time considering his reflection, as a quick glance in my direction would tell you. But there I was, nervously staring at myself in a wall of full-length mirrors. Reflected next to me was my teacher Lucía Garrido, the epitome of poise and beauty. Her mother was a dance diva, the doyenne of seventies flamenco, and Lucía has inherited her mother's talent, looks and grace. Even the most basic moves require full concentration. Like clapping. I thought I had mastered this at the age of two, but apparently not. We watched our reflections repeatedly clapping out fervent flamenco rhythms until, finally, I got it right and with a deep satisfaction, my hands emitted that unique castanet clack.

Next, we moved to footwork, but even simple steps tripped me up. There are nuances — specific angles for the foot that do not feel natural. But with several repetitions it became easier and the flow started: step, step, clap, step-step-step, clap. Tentative at first, maybe only making it halfway through the sequence before I flat footed a move that should have been loaded with subtle Andalusian passion, moving left when it should have been right or clapping at the wrong time. These mistakes punctuated my practice but slowly they became less frequent. Pavlovian conditioning even worked on my mal-co-ordinated feet and so we upped the pace, moving in unison. For a few brief moments I was a Flamenco dancer. And then I tripped over my feet again.

Board babe

It isn't a glamourous look. From a pretty red dress and killer heels, I was now in bulky knee pads, socks so thick they restricted blood flow to my toes, and a piece of foam over my rear end for which I would be indescribably grateful later, but which meant I required no answer to the inevitable does-my-bum-look-big-in-this question.

Rose Allett finds her feet on a snowboard
Gary, my instructor, met me at the top of the gondola. As I shackled the clunky board to my feet, he assured me that balance, co-ordination and body awareness are essential for both dance and snowboarding so this would be easier than I thought. I didn't believe him, but was grateful for his cheerful confidence.

At first, even standing up felt impossible. My feet didn't belong to me, and they kept slipping out from under my body. But little by little, with his constant pep-talk, Gary uncurled my tense fingers from his and pushed me gently down the slope. I slid slowly across the compacted snow, but with no idea how to stop, I eventually flopped down in a fit of giggles in the soft powder at the bottom. I had ridden a snowboard! No matter that the slope was practically flat.

But once is never enough. I took the board off and we trudged up the slope, higher and steeper each time. I learned to balance, as if for the first time. I learned to move with the board and not fight it and to turn by a subtle shift of my head. My knees, lower back and thighs ached. Everything ached. Then I fell hard and suddenly understood that boarding was going to be a long-term commitment, not a holiday fling. Getting up and trying again was suddenly more difficult. I was scared and in pain, with bruised buttocks, screaming ribs and a battered ego. But I remembered the feeling when I was getting it right, and it is addictive. I ploughed on.

On the face of it, snowboarding and flamenco have little in common, but by tasting each other's passions it became clear that we have had similar experiences. Both require balance, patience, poise and a need to relearn the most elementary body movements.

We both spent time doing what we love, we both tried something new and got enormous satisfaction mastering the basic techniques. Most importantly, we shared. Although we both spent less time doing our own thing in order to do someone else's, this was no compromise. Whether the next trip will be on snow or sprung floor, or even if we swap other passions, it will certainly be one we both want to take.